


Welcome to the Outer Rim

by ktula



Series: Tales from the Outer Rim [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Multi, Other, POV Second Person, also enjoy the pg-13 rating, and guessing backstories, because it all goes downhill from here, have fun picking people out as they show up, rapidly rapidly downhill, there's some good ones, which we will get to in good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: There’s this bar you should know about.It’s a tough place to find if you don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but I can show you the way. I know, I know—one alley looks much the same as the rest, but stick with me, I promise it’s worth it ...





	Welcome to the Outer Rim

There’s this bar you should know about.

It’s a tough place to find if you don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but I can show you the way. I know, I know—one alley looks much the same as the rest, but stick with me, I promise it’s worth it.

Here, shield your face from the rain, look across the street—you see the bricks, you see the graffiti? It’s faded, but if you squint, you can see the comets, and if you get closer—yes, let’s cross the street, but mind the potholes—it’s easier to see the colour variations now that we’re closer. Some are green, some red, some orange, some blue—all the colours of the rainbow. It’s just that nobody’s been maintaining them, so they’re less vibrant now. But you can still see them, if you know where to look.

Plus, there’s the neon sign. Just there, halfway down the alley. I know, it’s so dated—the kind of style that’s been and gone, come back in, and then faded into obscurity a second time. The letters are orange, the script jagged … probably supposed to be funky, but it’s just hard to read.

(Can you decipher the letters? It’s meant to say _The Outer Rim_ , but the r’s are out. Squint at it a moment, you’ll get it.)

Don’t mind the job ad posted on the wall outside—it’s too damaged by the rain for you to be able to make it out anyway.

Go on, push open the door. Go inside.

 

The lighting is dim and the door screeches when you push it open. It’s daytime now—or, at least, late afternoon. The bar is mostly empty. The lighting is dim, and there’s dust floating through the air. It smells like sawdust inside, like recent construction, even though nothing is visible from the entrance.

It’s a pretty standard layout for a bar. There’s seating off to your right—all one level on the floor, but there’s a raised bit running around the edges, putting some of the tables up higher. There’s something that looks like it might be a stage, way off to the right and back a ways—but it’s pretty much impossible to tell when the lighting is this bad.

(Somebody should really speak to the manager about that.)

Bathrooms are right ahead of you, on the other side of the bar. The door of one of them is propped open, but you can’t see anything inside.

The bar is right in front of you. It’s a monstrous u-shaped thing. Wooden, but badly scratched and dinged, a long gouge in the side closest to the door. There are stools pushed up under the ledge. They’re mismatched, but they look comfortable enough.

So does the bartender.

He’s watching you, has been watching you since you swung the door open. He’s got a nice face, pleasant and open, and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. He’s smiling now, tucking the cloth he was wiping the bar with into the waistband of his pants. He’s got a smile that’ll twist in your gut—or somewhere lower—and his jawline is strong, dusted with stubble. His hair has been artfully tousled into something that looks like sex hair, but is probably just bedhead. He’s wearing a white short-sleeved shirt. The shirt dips in a v at the front—low enough that you can see a hint of something that might be a tattoo on his chest, but not low enough to be able to see what it is. He turns away from you, briefly—just for a moment—and the white shirt is worn, thin enough that you can almost see through it. There are vague, irregular shadows on his back, hinting at more ink there—but you can’t see the details, and anyways, he’s turning back to you again, leaning forward onto the bar.

If you approach, he’ll offer you something. He’s just opened a keg of something new, isn’t sure how it’s going to go over—or he’s in the process of perfecting a new cocktail recipe. Both of those things are probably inaccurate, a way to offer you something on the house without making it awkward—but if you accept, his fingers will brush against yours when he hands you your drink.

(You can pursue that, if you want to.)

 

Let’s find a table.

There’s probably something back over—oh, yes. Now that we’re a little further into the bar, you can see inside the bathroom. Looks like they’re renovating—there’s a guy in there, kneeling on the floor, a stack of tiles beside him. Black and white checkerboard. He’s about halfway finished, is working his way from the back of the bathroom to the door—

And yeah, it must be hot in there, because he’s got his shirt stripped off, sweat running down his dark skin. He wipes his hand across his forehead, looks up at the ceiling for a minute, and then notices you in his peripheral vision. He turns his head—and wow, if the bartender’s smile was charming and pleasant, this guy’s smile is electric, all shining white teeth, his face absolutely illuminated with it. He raises one of his hands, gives you a quick wave.

There’s mortar smeared on the side of his hand, pale against his skin.

(If you’re blushing, it’s okay.)

 

Once you’re past the bathroom, past that open door—though nobody would blame you if you decided to stop in for a few minutes, see how the renos are going up close—you can see the rest of the bar more clearly. There is a stage at the back end there, but it looks disused, worn down. There’s also a VIP area off to your right. It’s not visible from the door—I suppose that’s part of the appeal—and it’s raised up by five or six steps, enclosed on the edges by wooden railings. There’s a tattered velvet rope cordoning off the bottom of the stairs.

(The railings look as though they’ve had people thrown against them a time or two, and may not last another collision—so watch yourself.)

Pull out a chair. Sit down, have your drink. You can nurse it if you want—or you can drink it fast, go back for another.

(You may want to wait for the guy that just came in to leave, though—he’s a big guy, tall and wide across the shoulders, but awkward about it. His wet hair is falling in front of his face, but it’s not long enough to completely cover his eyes—at least, not yet. He looks—unsure of himself, twitchy. Keeps looking over his shoulder, like he’s waiting for someone to tell him he’s not supposed to be here, like he’s waiting for someone to drag him out, take him back where he came from—wherever that is. He’s got a piece of paper held awkwardly in his hand, is showing it to the bartender, pointing at something on it. You can see the shake in his hand from here, which means it must be fucking bad.)

(I wouldn’t bet money on it, but that piece of paper? Looks a bit like a resume to me, albeit one with wide margins and lots of blank space.)

So yeah, have your drink. Go back for another when the coast is clear. In the meantime, don’t lean too far back in your chair, it creaks—but hell, maybe if you’re lucky, maybe the contractor will finish up his tile job in the bathroom, emerge from the light of the bathroom into the dimness of the bar. Maybe he’ll look your direction, flash you another one of those brilliant smiles.

Maybe you can talk him into taking a look at your chair.

It’s probably a safety hazard.

 

If you stay long enough that afternoon turns to evening, well—you can watch how the place changes. You can watch the contractor clean up after himself—the work’s not done yet, but it likely won’t be that much longer now—watch him pull his coveralls back up and wipe off his forehead one last time. He stops briefly at the bar on his way out, downs a glass of cold water and chats with the bartender. You’re too far to hear anything that they’re saying—and you can’t read lips—but the contractor leans in, right at the end. Whispers something in the bartender’s ear.

(It’s probably private, but you don’t need to turn away. You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?)

(It’s worth staying until evening—I think you’ll like it. And if you don’t like it—at least you’ll learn something.)

There’s a second bartender behind the bar now, in addition to the tousled bartender from earlier. (He changed his shirt at some point, stripped the white one off and exchanged it for a black one—you were watching that, weren’t you? Oh, that’s a pity.)

This new bartender is a woman—she’s younger, much younger, and you wonder for a moment if she should even be here—but that’s none of your business. Anyway, she makes a mean backdraft, you can see her practicing it now, the flames shooting up higher than … well, they would be higher than her head if it weren’t for her hair, but she has long hair, hairsprayed up into three liberty spikes, and the flames don’t extend up that high.

I’d tell you that her hair makes her look more threatening—but let’s be serious here, it’s not the hair. It’s not the hair, it’s not the foot of fire she’s just created at the bar, it’s not the delight in her grin or the wildness in her eyes.

It’s the damn butterfly knives that she spins every chance she gets, eyes shut and blades twirling around and around and around. It’s the way she stops the blades immediately as soon as anyone gets remotely close to her, eyes flashing open the moment someone approaches.

It’s the way the bartender is careful to give her a wide berth, always approaching her slowly so she can see him out of the corner of her eye long before he’s actually in range.

But sure, yeah. Blame it on the hair.

That’s okay too.

 

The place starts filling up—but it’s only a person here, a person there. Kinda hard to imagine how the bar stays open—nobody is drinking heavily, nobody is staying for long, nobody is showing up with an entire group of friends in tow … it’s mostly just people showing up individually, having a drink or two, and then wandering out again. The place doesn’t really seem to have a reputation as a hook-up bar—sure, there’s people eyeing each other, there’s people eyeing the bartender—the one with the tousled bedhead, not the one with the liberty spikes—but nobody really seems to be making any moves. (Unless, of course, you count whatever the contractor was whispering in the male bartender’s ear earlier—and you probably should count that, based on the way the bartender had bitten his lip and looked away.)

But give it some time.

Have another drink.

 

There she is! There, do you see her? She’s just at the entrance, has to duck slightly to keep her short mohawk from scraping against the top of the door. She’s stunning—a statuesque blonde wearing a silver dress and black spike heels. When she turns her head, you can see a geometric cluster of tattoos just behind her ear that extend gently onto her neck. Her dress is backless, showing off the tattoo that stretches across her back from shoulder to shoulder—the silver pauldrons of some futuristic plate armor, deftly tattooed and highly detailed. Her lipstick is nearly the shade of blood, only darker, and she’s taller even than the sullen, sharp-faced redhead standing beside her—though he’s tall enough.

(Don’t worry, they’re not together. I can tell you that on good authority—she’s not interested in anyone who identifies as male, and he’s about as male as they get—though not particular about who he’s with as long as they’ve got something between their legs he can get his mouth on.)

It’s the two of them keeping this bar running—see the look on the bartender’s face when they enter, see how the tension melts out of his jaw now that they’re both here? And look at what he’s pouring—that bourbon doesn’t come from the shelf of booze behind the bar—it’s a bottle that the bartender pulled up from underneath the bar, so it’s either going to be extraordinarily cheap, or—

Oh, no, wait. You see the label?

That’s the good shit, right there. Ex-pen-sive.

The bartender tosses the sullen redhead a wink as he slides the glass across the bar and immediately starts pouring another—which doesn’t make a lot of sense until you watch the redhead toss the first glass back as though it’s a shot. By the time the redhead slams the empty glass back down on the bar, the second glass is already ready for him to snatch up and carry with him as he separates from the blonde, walks back to one of the raised tables up in the corner.

The bartender leans forward on the bar, asks the blonde something. He’s probably asking about the snit the redhead is in—god knows that’s the question I’d be asking if I were him, because there’s obviously something—

Shit, pull your feet in from the aisle, he’s coming this way and you really don’t want—

—ah, there, he’s past.

Let’s turn back to the blonde. The redhead looks like he needs a few minutes.

 

The blonde is still chatting with the bartender—friendly enough, although you can see it in his eyes that there are times he regrets his gender and this is one of them, because he can keep his fingers on the pint glass he’s passing to her all he wants, he can brush his skin against hers all he wants—but she’s far, far more interested in the girl spinning butterfly knives with her eyes shut at the other end of the bar than she’ll ever be in anything he has to offer her.

Still, they chat a bit longer. She tastes the beer he’s poured her, grins. He pours her a second pint, carries it as he walks with her to the VIP section. He unclips the barrier with a flourish—and she smiles with one side of her mouth, even though she’s still looking back to the bar, and the girl with the liberty spikes.

(I have it on good authority that the VIP section was built specifically for her—and indeed, she sinks into the plush couch there with an audible sigh of relief, looking very comfortable, and very much at home.)

On his way back to the bar, the bartender grabs into a ratty-looking piece of fabric, pulls it off some equipment. It’s a—well, it’s definitely not a DJ booth, but it’s some kind of sound-system, jury-rigged together from mismatched and outdated equipment.

Let’s give them a couple hours.

Have another drink.

 

Like I said—between the two of them, they’re keeping the bar in business. You see that now, right?

The blonde has got anywhere between six and eight other people in the VIP booth with her—it’s a little difficult to count the limbs when they’re all intertwined like that, either draped directly on her, or hanging off each other with the blonde’s approval—and too many empty drinks to count. (The bartender hasn’t been slacking with picking up the empties, either.) She’d had another person in there earlier—but that girl is over at the sad excuse for a sound system now, headphones draped around her neck, and the blonde’s lipstick smeared on her cheek like a badge of honour. Beautifully manicured eyebrows, beauty mark just above her lips on the right side, eyes closed in concentration. Fingers dancing over the turntables, adjusting sliders on the mixer. The music is—calming, relaxing, but there’s a kind of low-intensity throb that runs as a consistent current through all of it. Like a heartbeat.

The blonde looks over to her and smiles, pleased—and if she’s pleased, you should be too.

(Aren’t you pleased? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?)

 

Speaking of low-intensity throb—have you looked over to the redhead lately? We didn’t get a good look at him before, so let’s look now—he’s much more receptive to it now, for whatever reason.

(It’s probably the bourbon. He’s had more than a few.)

His table is around the corner from the VIP booth—highly visible from the front door in the exact way that the VIP booth isn’t, up on that raised ledge and tucked against the wall. Like the blonde, the redhead is very relaxed here, and this is very obviously his space—after all, he’s got his feet up on the table, ankles crossed. His shoes are polished black leather with a pointed toe and a slight heel, and his pants fit snug to his legs. He’s wearing a short-sleeved black shirt, buttoned all the way up to his neck, and his pale, pale skin is swathed in tattoos all the way down his arms to his wrists.

(If you’re any good with flowers, you’ll be able to identify aconitum, delphinium elatum, azalea—but even if you’re not good with flowers, you can see enough to know the tattoos are beautiful, flowers and vines and leaves, and bright flashes of white just visible between. You would have to get closer to decipher the details, though.)

(Do you want to get closer?)

He’s wearing black glasses, thick-rimmed and expensive. His red hair was slicked back against his head when he came into the bar—but it’s starting to loosen up now, a couple chunks of it falling over onto the shaved sides of his head. He’s got multiple empties on his table—looks like the service that’s happening for the VIP booth isn’t happening for him.

But, then, with a glare like that, I’m not really sure what he expects to happen.

(There are people watching him now, do you see? People standing down on the main floor of the bar, standing there with their drinks halfway finished, just—just looking at him. Quick glances, sideways looks, but they’re all directed at him.)

The redhead himself is nursing the tail end of his drink, swirling the remnants of the glass, coming to a decision of some sort—and then the decision has been made, and he tosses back the rest of his drink, slides the empty glass onto the table and lets it collide with the others. He swings his feet down from the table back onto the floor, and reaches into his pocket, removing—something? Takes off his glasses, and folds them up, sets them on the table. Deftly and quickly opens the container he’d removed from his pocket and puts his contacts in without the aid of a mirror, staring up at the ceiling and blinking slightly as his vision adjusts.

He shoves his chair back and heads over to the bar. His gait is looser than it had been when he’d first shown up, and he even raises his hand briefly in the direction of the blonde on his way over.

(She doesn’t notice, but hell, with two women that beautiful making out on your lap? I don’t know about you, but someone could bring the entire bar down on top of my head and I don’t know that I’d notice.)

When he gets to the bar, he slides his glasses over to the bartender, who takes them easily—as though this is a commonplace occurrence—and secrets them underneath the bar. They chat for a few moments, but neither of them are looking at each other—the bartender is watching the girl with the liberty spikes flipping a knife around with one hand and pouring a line of shots with the other, and the redhead is scanning the crowd in front of him.

Narrow fingers come up to the buttons of his shirt, and he undoes the top button—and then the second, the third and the fourth, draws his fingers down to open the shirt up a little, baring the white oleander tattooed right in the hollow of his neck. There are leaves surrounding it, leaves and the stark white bone of the collarbones tattooed over his own—but the flower is the focal point.

(No one in the bar is staring at the flower. Everyone that’s staring at him is staring at his mouth.)

The redhead scans the crowd again, flicks his fingers briefly in someone’s direction, and then heads for the bathroom. (They’re down to one tonight, due to renovations—but that doesn’t much matter to him, so it shouldn’t much matter to you either.)

The bartender sighs—not loud enough to hear, but you can read it off his lips, if that’s where you’re looking—and drags another bottle up from underneath the bar, pours a shot.

Peppermint schnapps, by the look of it—and it’s definitely the cheap shit.

You can smell it from here.

 

Oh, look at the time.

It’s getting late for me—but you, you could stay if you like.

The bartender would be more than happy to pour you a drink on the house, if you stayed and chatted with him for a bit.

I’ve been told the girl with the liberty spikes can set pretty much anything you want on fire—and maybe even some things that you don’t. But if you’re looking for a show, she can definitely provide you with one—just watch how you approach her, and don’t sneak up.

You’re eyeing the VIP booth—by all means, try your luck. But buy her a drink first, would you?

(If you’re too intimidated, you could stand on the dance floor, sway to the heartbeat of the music. Maybe the girl at the sound system will wink at you—but then again, maybe she won’t.)

I wouldn’t suggest following the redhead back into the bathroom—it’s enough to just watch him come out, throw back the peppermint schnapps shot, and then crook his finger at someone else and head right back in there again. You probably don’t need any of the details.

However you choose to spend your time—I hope you enjoy it.

I hope you’re glad I’ve invited you.

 

Welcome to the Outer Rim.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was experimental.
> 
> Got questions? I've got answers! Hit me up on [Tumblr](https://wtf-ktula.tumblr.com) and I'll answer what I can.
> 
> (To be honest, I didn't intend to write this piece--I've actually been working on what will end up being the second piece in the series, which is a KHK prompt which spiraled rapidly out of control. Three-quarters of the way through that piece, I realized that I wanted to write something to set the stage, to ground people in what is turning out to be a twisted, fucked-up little AU that grew legs and ran away on me. The POV thing happened because why would I make things easy for myself.)


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